


The Winner

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Challenge Response, Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-07-29
Updated: 1999-07-29
Packaged: 2018-11-10 07:59:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11123055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: A young athlete at the Special Olympics learns what it means to be a winner.





	The Winner

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

The Winner

## The Winner

by Voyagerbabe

Author's webpage: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Starship/6102/home.html

Author's disclaimer: Alliance owns Ben. I own Ashley. This story is dedicated to all the young men and women who have worked so hard to become athletes in the Special Olympics.

Author's notes: This is an answer to the whipped cream challenge on RSY.

* * *

Most of the kids were eating, but I wasn't. 

The strawberries, melon, and grapes were fat and juicy, sending gushes of sweet juice down the chins of the others as they bit in. Thick dollops of whipped cream had been squirted over each cup, and as anyone knows, whipped cream just won't stay fluffy and cool for long in the middle of August. I knew that by the end of the race, those sweet little clouds and that glistening fruit would be mushy and hot, the cream puddled and melted on the bottom of the cups. 

I also knew, however, that not eating them was giving me an advantage. At least three of the twelve girls who would be racing me were there under the tent, digging in to the free treats while they were still good. In twenty minutes, when the starter's gun fired, a fair portion of their blood would be in their stomachs. All of mine would be in my muscles, ready to push me to victory. 

For what must have been the fiftieth time, I leaned over, running my hands carefully over the sleek wheels of my chariot. The entire community had held a fund raiser to buy me this special racing wheelchair, and I couldn't let them down. I had to win, to make the thousands of hours of training mean something other than gallons of lost sweat. To pay back in pride all the ice cream socials and community garage sales. 

More importantly, though, I had to win for Mom and Jeremy. Five years ago, a drunk driver on the I-90 blindsided our Toyota. I was nine, Jeremy barely two. He took my legs. He took their lives. 

My fingers absently trace the smooth curves where my thighs end, just above where my knees used to be. With my legs went my hope for the US Olympic Track and Field Team, but that wasn't the real loss. I'm still here, with the Children's Special Olympics, the thick muscles of my arms and back propelling me at speeds that can *exceed* those of runners with all four limbs. No, my legs weren't the real loss. 

The real loss was watching little Jeremy chase bugs across the front porch, giggling so hard that his toddling steps would stumble, falter, then fail him entirely. The way he would smear spaghetti-sauce art across our kitchen wall, or 'dance' along with the radio in nothing but his diaper. The loss was my Mother's special peanut-butter brownies, of her arms holding me after I missed placing in a track meet by half a heartbeat. It was not hearing her sing off-key while she did the dishes, or making up silly limericks about bad television shows. 

I close my eyes, trying to stop the memories. I can't let this happen, not now. Less than twenty minutes from now, I will have to be operating at my absolute prime, and I cannot see the finish line with tears in my eyes. Slowly, I try to replace the sorrow with anger, fire to push me towards the gold. 

Suddenly, a man's voice intrudes. "Would you like some?" I open my eyes, and my breath catches in my chest. He's gorgeous. 

Eyes every bit as blue as the summer sky look down at me, kind and compassionate, but without the sympathy and pity I see so often. His face is boyish and smooth, sculpted with a classical appeal that reminds me of the drawings of Prince Charming from my childhood books of fairy tales. Dark hair is cut short, but just long enough that sweat has made it curl. He's not as tightly muscled as the athletes here, but the physique beneath his volunteer's tee shirt is trim and toned, the muscles of his smooth, hairless arms clearly defined though not bulging. I like that unlike most handsome men, he's chosen a tee shirt that fits, rather than one that will stretch tightly against those broad shoulders. 

It takes me a long moment to notice that he's holding a fruit cup. Closing my mouth, I shake my head. "No thanks. I want to keep all my energy right here." I flex one arm in demonstration. He nods and smiles, revealing perfectly white teeth. 

"Intelligent decision, Ashley. I just didn't want you to miss out unless it was by your own choice." He raises the fruit cup. "For later, then?" 

I shrug, "I wish, but it won't be any good later." 

"Ah. Well then, I'll let you prepare." He turns to go, but something suddenly occurs to me. "How did you know my name?" 

He turns back, a slight smile bringing to my attention a dimple in his right cheek. "Quite simple, actually. You're number thirteen...Ashley Keil. I memorized the athlete's names in the events I will be assisting with." 

I grin. "Wow. What's your name?" 

"Benton Fraser. You can call me Ben if you wish." 

"All right, Ben...I'll see you on the winner's platform. I'll be the one holding the cross-country gold." I spin my chair in a tight circle for effect, holding my breath so as not to choke on the dust cloud that kicks up in the hot, dry summer air. Ben takes a step back, then nods pleasantly. 

"I hope so. Good luck. Now, if you will excuse me, I'm afraid I need to attend to some duties at the main track." With a polite nod, he leaves, and I find my eyes inadvertantly following the fit of his blue jeans. Quickly, I shake my head. No distractions means no distractions. 

Trying to push the handsome volunteer from my mind, I take one wrist in the grip of my other hand, pulling gently but firmly to stretch the muscles and limber the joint. If I want my boast to Ben to become a reality, I've got to be ready. 

*** 

"On your marks..." My eyes are fixed on the road ahead like lasers, my muscles straining as my gloved hands grip my wheels. I see Ben out of the corner of my eye, standing as one of the spotters up on the curve ahead. He's going to see exactly what I can do. Exactly how good I am. 

"Get set..." Every fiber in my body is tense, my heart pounding. My entire being is centered on the finish line, five kilometers away over three hills and six turns. I know that by the time I get there, I will be sweating, panting, and exhaused, my body on fire. But I also know that I will get there first. 

"Go!" With a massive heave and a primal battle cry, I send my chair flying down the track. Within moments, I've got a steady rhythm going, my arms moving back and forth against my wheels in powerful strokes like the oars of an ancient Roman battleship. The faces and cheers of the spectators blur past me, and my vision is locked on the track ahead. I can hear my pulse in my ears, feel the sweat begin to bead and drip on my skin beneath the pounding rays of the sun. Time is measured in each heaving breath, distance vanishing beneath my tires. 

I am only marginally aware of each racer that slips behind me, but I am very aware that I have taken the lead. Jeremy's sweet face appears in my mind, and I imagine him clutching my mother's hand, standing in the crowd and watching me push on to victory. I know they can see me from heaven, and I want them to see me proudly holding high the gold medal. 

By the time I reach the last hill, I feel like my arms have been filled with white-hot coals. My chest is tightening, my heart beating it's way through my jersey, but still, I continue. I only have to make it to the top, then my momentum will take me down and across the finish line. I am in the lead by almost two meters, my victory assured. Biting my lip, I shove harder at the wheels, ignoring the pain. 

Suddenly, the fabric of my glove pinches. I've reached too low on the wheel, my glove has become caught. I hear myself scream as the speed of the wheel jerks my arm down, then hear a snapping sound, like a dry branch cracking. A sharp lance of agony sears up my arm from my wrist, and I feel blood, warm and wet, dripping towards my fingers. The crowd gasps, and my chair careens out of control, toppling onto it's side. I fall out, sobbing in pain and rage. Why did this have to happen! I was so close! So damned close! 

I lay there in the dust for what seems like years, hearing the other racers fly past. Only two seconds ago, I was celebrating my victory. Now I won't even finish! 

The medics are shouting for people to get out of the way, waiting for the last racers to pass so that they can get me. I don't want them to come. I don't want to be carried off the track a failure. 

Tears mingle with the sweat on my cheeks, and I imagine Mom and Jeremy looking down, shaking their heads in disappointment. It's all over, my dreams destroyed. I look up at the blue sky, begging their forgiveness, knowing that this is an unforgivable failure. Suddenly, through the blur of tears, I see a face lean over me. It's Ben. 

His strong arms wrap beneath me, lifting me as easily as if I were a rag doll. He's careful not to touch my shattered wrist, allowing me to cradle it close. I look into those blue eyes in confusion. Why isn't he waiting for the medics? They're the ones who will take me to the hospital. He doesn't have to do this. 

Ben doesn't take me to the sidelines, however. He doesn't carry me to the waiting stretcher, or hand me over to a medic. Instead, he looks into my eyes, his own filled with understanding. "Do you want to finish?" 

My heart soars as I realize the gift he's offering me. He will be my chariot. I may not win, but at least I'll complete what I set out to do. Blinking back my tears, I nod. 

The crowd is silent as he begins to walk down the track, carrying me. My blood has turned the front of his white tee shirt scarlet, but strangely, I don't feel the pain any more. I feel like I'm floating, cradled safe in his arms. I only see Mom and Jeremy, watching me from behind the fluttering ribbons of the finish line's broken tape. Even the medics seem to realize the importance of this, and they make no move to stop Ben as he takes me those last two hundred yards. 

Finally, we step across the finish line, and I begin to cry again as the crowd bursts into a loud, roaring cheer. This time, though, my tears are of triumph. I see Mom and Jeremy bending over me, their faces superimposed over those of the medics as I am lifted from Ben's grasp and laid on the backboard. The medics are fussing over me, yelling orders and asking questions. I ignore them. My injury doesn't matter. 

Ben smiles at me proudly, and I smile back as he walks beside the stretcher. He reaches into his pocket, then leans over, pressing something cool into my hand. I can feel that it's metal, and I open my hand curiously, straining to look at it from my strapped down position. Ben's blue eyes are soft. "I know it's not a gold medal, but it's the best I could do...I think you more than deserve it." 

It's some kind of policeman's badge, the gold crest glinting brightly in the sun. "Are you a cop?" 

"RCMP, actually." 

I smile lazily...the painkillers the medics are giving me have begun to take effect. "Oh. Thanks." 

He vanishes from my view, and for a moment, I think he's left. Then he reappears, handing something to one of the medics. "You can give her this later," he says, "I think she wanted it." 

It's one of the fruit cups. I don't know how he did it, but the fruit is still glistening and fresh, cool drops of condensation forming on the outside of the plastic cup. The whipped cream is still a light cloud on top, promising to be perfectly sweet and airy. I stare at it in amazement, but he just smiles. "I kept it for the winner." 

**THE END**


End file.
